


Last Day at Kinloch Hold

by skyholdherbalist



Series: As the moth sees light [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Circle of Magi, Gen, Grey Wardens, Kinloch Hold, Loneliness, Mage Origin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-06-30 09:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: Solona Amell’s final day in the Circle Tower began like so many others.  By its end, there was nothing familiar left for her.





	1. Chapter 1

Solona Amell’s final day in the Circle Tower began like so many others.By its end, there was nothing familiar left for her. 

She shivered awake before sunrise.Drew her knees to her chest and cast a warming spell toward her icy feet.Whispered a quick count to steel herself against the cold, against the day _—1… 2… 3_.Threw back her blankets and stood.Splashed her face in the washbasin, and pulled her blue wool mage robes over her head. 

The neck caught upon her thick crown of black, corkscrew curls, the bodice stretched taut against her broad hips, and the sleeves and skirt swallowed her hands and feet.

The robes did not fit at all.

She had meant to ask for new ones, or have these let out and hemmed up, in those first days after she received them, after her Harrowing.But within a week, everything changed.

Within a week, she betrayed Jowan, and Jowan betrayed them all, and the Maker, with his blood magic. 

Solona could not count the times she had heard it said—after every failed escape, after petitions and begging, even after a poor soul tried to take her own life:

_Our place is here.The Maker wills it._

It was the truth, harsh as it was.It was why she did not fight the order of First Enchanter Irving to trap her friend.It was for Jowan’s own good.

But there was no good in a blood mage.Only corruption, and death.It was a blessing to be able to see the right path, and walk upon it, though it may be strewn with rocks and thorns. 

Since then, she woke early, to pray.She sought guidance each day for that blessing. 

The air outside the mages’ quarters was frigid and damp.Sleepy apprentices yawned and muttered to each other over their dawn chores: resurrecting dead fires, sweeping floors with dried weed brooms, emptying chamber pots.Templars in the passageways, near the end of night watch, shuffled noisily in their armor to stay awake.The dense metal clang echoed through the halls. 

Her robes trailed behind her, sweeping the cold flagstones as she made her way to chapel. 

The candles at the altar guttered and spit.Their light barely reached the stained glass windows.In daylight, the chapel burned with the vibrant glow of the jeweled panes—garnet and sapphire and emerald.Now they were dull and dark, and a soft rain dripped against the glass. 

Solona lit a fresh votive, the wax red as the flames which took the Bride, and sat in a front pew.Her eyes relaxed upon the altar, and the candle flames blurred into a hazy glow.She breathed deeply, and clasped her hands together to begin her prayers. 

A shuffle of footsteps and low voices woke her from her meditation.

Her vision sharpened, and she looked behind her to see a trio of apprentices enter the chapel.Two of them walked arm-in-arm, their young faces bright and happy, while the other followed with a shy smile. 

When they spotted Solona, all three stopped and stared.  Their smiles dissolved.The shy one pulled at the robes of the others, and their soft slippers brushed the stone as they fled the chapel.

Solona turned back to the altar.It was not something one got used to quickly, being shunned.Each avoidance and exclusion stung like the first. 

Since Jowan, no one wanted to be Solona’s friend.No one wanted to share dinner with her, to pray with her, _for_ her.The other mages, even the apprentices, were disquieted.

There were hushed talks in dark corners, which stopped when she came near.Supplies and scrolls went missing.Some displayed their magic freely, dangerously, and not even the senior enchanters would stop them.Some questioned whether Jowan really had been a blood mage, or thought he had been unduly punished for minimal crimes.

Some called Jowan a martyr, though he was not dead, and Solona a traitor.Some called for rebellion. 

A rebellion. _More like a prison riot_ , she had overheard a senior mage tell another. _We are not soldiers here, or citizens.We’re animals in cages.Better to start acting like it._

She understood the heart of it.The Tower was a cage, that was no secret.There were so many things that should have been different.There was hardly any joy, hardly a breath that was not scrutinized and controlled. 

But she had seen how quickly the urge for freedom could turn to heresy.How quickly poor, talentless Jowan debased what little gift he had.

It did not take much to turn someone like that. 

All there was to do now was study, and pray.Pray for a time when things would calm, when the others would see reason.She closed her eyes against the shimmering mass of candles, and clasped her hands together.

“I thought I may find you here, child.”First Enchanter Irving’s voice was tired.It echoed softly through the open space.

She had not heard him walk into the chapel, but she turned to find he stood a few pews behind her, leaning upon his gnarled staff.  His pale hair and aged face held dark shadows in the dim light.

He looked at her with pity.

Though she fought such a poison from entering her mind here in the chapel, rage swelled inside her.She hated him for what he had ordered her to do.She hated him for his pity, for making her pitiable.

Solona stared at him, and her face felt as hard as her heart.

Yet his pity did not waver, and he would not let her be.“Come to my office when your prayers are finished,” he said.Though it was gently said, it was not a request.

Then he trudged into the passageway, his back bent, and was beset by other early risers who wanted his attention.

There was no stigma against him for what had happened.  Solona followed _his_ orders, but she alone carried the burden of it.

Solona exhaled deeply, tried to push the rage away with her breath.She shut her eyes tight, held her hands tight, her jaw and her teeth.She made a wall of herself, and prayed. 

 _Blessed art thou who exist in the sight of the Maker,_  
_Blessed are the penitents who seek His return,_  
_Blessed is the Prophetess, purified by flame._  
_May the Chant reach the Maker’s ears and tell him of our contrition._

Her breath settled, and her mind calmed.Solona stepped toward the altar again and genuflected.Her knees struck the hard, cold floor.

At a shadowy pew to her left, someone else was on his knees.He had entered while she was praying, and had not left upon seeing her there.

These days, only one person did that.

When he stood, his fair hair caught the faint light, his polished chestplate bore the Sword of Mercy.Cullen, the young knight who had only recently come to the Tower.Who had been at her Harrowing.

She saw him often in the chapel at dawn.It was uncommon to see a Templar so pious in the Circle.Lately, he was the only person who was kind to her.Clearly he did not feel as her fellow mages did—the other Templars did not seem to feel much at all.

He was a friend, if a Templar could be friend to a mage. 

She had, in days past, asked herself if her early prayers were truly an effort to find some quiet solitude, or whether there was another motive.  Whether she sought the chapel so early because she would find him there, or he would find her.

And she could not deny the answer.

No less could she deny that he was sweet, and handsome.Cullen usually walked her out of the Chapel after their prayers, though she never asked him to, and made polite conversation.He kept a courteous distance.

She lifted the too-long robes above her feet and moved between the pews toward the open doorway.She paused where Cullen still stood, but did not turn to him.

“Good morning,” she whispered, and walked on. 

A clumsy jangle of armor, and he caught up to her.“Good morning,” he said, falling into step alongside her.From the corner of her eye, she could see he was smiling at her.How long had it been since anyone else smiled at her?

“Um.Rainy, isn’t it?It’s so… dark today,” he said. 

They paused at the doorway.Light from the candelabras lining the halls threw shadows into the chapel, long dark stripes upon their faces.

She returned his smile, and it felt as good to smile at someone as it did to be smiled at.“Very,” she said.“If you go outside, don’t rust.” 

After a shocked moment, he laughed.It echoed in the arches of the chapel ceiling.“I, uh, don’t think I’ll be venturing out,” he said.“But I will be careful, all the same.”His warm brown eyes lingered upon her.

Solona nodded to him.With her robes in her hands, it felt like a curtsy.She flushed.

All at once, it felt like a romance, a tale from a bard—the golden-haired knight who pined for the maiden locked in a tower, their love as pure as their faith.

But this was not a bard’s story.There would be no courtly romance.For all his interest, his kindness, he would do his duty.

He would _watch_ her, and the others, as long as she stayed in the tower.And she would stay in this tower for the rest of her life. 

_Our place is here.The Maker wills it._


	2. Chapter 2

There was a stranger in Irving’s quarters.

He wore dingy, mismatched armor, and held his hands behind his back.  His handsome, weathered face turned to watch Irving and Greagoir argue with wary interest.

When Solona approached and Greagoir left, his interest, and his dark, penetrating eyes, shifted to her. 

He was a Grey Warden, Irving told her.She did not know any Grey Wardens still lived.  They were a relic, a fairy tale from a bygone age, or so she had thought.  

And she did not know about the conflict in the south, as Irving began to explain the visit.

This, she assumed, was by design.There was little that worked its way down to the apprentices and new mages from the outside, hardly anything that could be confirmed.They lived in rumor and shadow. 

Irving shuffled toward his desk and sunk into his chair.“Duncan is here to recruit,” he said, gesturing toward the warden.“For the King’s army.”

Duncan’s eyes had hardly left her, and she saw now she was being assessed.Barely a full-fledged mage, she was hardly capable of fighting.Her talents were stronger in the library than with practical magic.

He seemed to know her mind, because he added, “The power you mages wield is an asset to any army.”His tone was weary.It was meant to be a compliment.It felt condescending.

“I wonder,” Irving began, his voice cracked, “if this may not be a boon.”He leaned forward on his desk and idly twirled a quill, his brow furrowed with concern.“Until matters are more... _settled_ here, you could join the troops at Ostagar.” 

 _Join_ them.Leave the Circle Tower.

Her body went cold, her breath caught in her throat.She had never considered leaving, even in these recent, bad days.Where would she have gone?She had not seen her mother since she was five, did not know whether she lived or died.

Solona knew her last days would be spent here.Or she _had_ known it.What if her last day was soon—felled by grave wound, dead in the mud in some place she didn’t know, for a King she'd never seen? 

Irving looked at her with watery eyes, puffy and drooping, his expression unclear.  He had aged so much in the near twenty years she had known him.

To a five-year-old child, he had seemed an old man.He must have been close to his prime then.Now, he stooped and shook.There was no true family in the Circle, but Irving had been a part of her life for so long.

He had hurt her, in that deep, cutting way only family could. 

“There are other mages there,” Irving said, setting down the quill.“Of course, they have been away from the Circle for some time now.”

 _They don’t know about you_ , he meant. _Things would be easier here, if you were gone.We are ready for you to be gone._

It had never been easy here.Yet something deep within her clung to the stone tower, desperate to stay.Something else clawed at the door.

“Is this an order?” she asked. 

A flash of recognition crossed Irving’s face.Of pity.“No.It is not, child.”

—

The halls of the Tower were busy now that the day had truly begun.

Enchanters went side by side, engaged in deep discussion over theoretical applications and particular uses for alchemical solvents.Apprentices, hushed and anxious, hurried to their morning classes.And the Tranquil moved slowly, purposefully, staring straight ahead, their faces blank as a new scroll. 

Solona walked Duncan to his guest quarters.He said nothing to her, and though she had questions for him—about the war, the Wardens, just what Darkspawn really were—she also kept quiet. 

As though he had read her mind again, he began to speak.“Thank you for walking with me,” he said politely.“After such a long journey, I am glad of the company.”

She turned to him and opened her mouth to speak when two older mages came into the hall, walking the opposite direction.Both looked at her, one with eyes narrowed, the other in somber judgement.They stepped clear of her and her companion, and whispered fiercely when they had passed. 

She felt Duncan watching her, but she all she did was walk faster.She would not give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction.

He easily caught up to her speed and fell in step with her.“If you’ll pardon me,” he said, “I knew something of the unrest among the mages, but did not know they were quite so divided.”

“They are not,” she said.She watched the flagstones pass under her feet, beneath the bunch of hem she held up.“They are united.Against me, and what I did.”She thought he at least deserved that clarification.

“Turning on one of your own, you mean?” Duncan asked. 

She sighed as they turned a corner into the main atrium of the Tower.The skylights were dim with rain, the sun barely breaking through what were surely thick, foggy clouds.The windows bathed the round space and its inhabitants—Tranquil at their stalls, Templars at watch—with an eerie, grey glow. 

“He was not one of my own any longer,” she said.

That was the truth, even if the others did not want to admit it.Jowan was the true betrayer.

“I see.”Duncan coughed.They walked on to the dormitory hall without another word.Solona was grateful for the silence. 

When they reached Duncan’s door, he paused.It seemed the first time he looked into her eyes, not merely evaluating her, or sizing up from afar.

“Was it worth it?” he asked. 

It was not a question she had ever considered.Solona took herself back to those days, only a few weeks ago, and scoured her memories.She had not felt any satisfaction then, nor felt any now.But neither, ultimately, did she feel regret for the choice she made.

“I—I cannot say.I did what had to be done.It matters not whether I suffer for it.”

Duncan nodded.“Do you know much about the Grey Wardens?” 

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said.“I am going to conscript you.Make you a Grey Warden.” 

Solona blinked at him.“What?”

“There is a war now, and soon, a Blight,” he said.“We need people like you.” 

Blood pounded in her temples.The dark hall seemed to spin, the soft lantern glow pierced her eyes.“But I—” she began, her throat dry.“I do not want that,” she said.“I was not even certain I would join the King’s army.” 

He merely stared at her, still as a statue.“You do not have a choice,” he said slowly, explaining as he might to a child.“We have the Right of Conscription to choose who is necessary.I am invoking that now.” 

She had let go of her skirts.The robes pooled at her feet, her hands sweating inside their too-long sleeves.

She did not know what any of this meant.Only that her life had irrevocably changed, again, and for the third time, it was no choice of hers.She was not in control of her own life, that was certain.

The Maker had a plan for her.She had hoped to be a participant in it, to do the Maker’s bidding.Instead, she seemed to exist as a leaf on the stream of her fate: floating, bobbing, drowning. 

She nodded to him, her face stone.When he turned to open his door, she asked, “What am I like?” 

“What?” 

“You said you needed people like me.What am I like?” she asked, her voice shaking. 

He sighed, and leaned against the heavy open door.“Grey Wardens are needed.But they are not wanted,” he said dispassionately.

“You isolate yourself.You betray the life you have known.Now you live with the decision you have made.”He assessed her again, but his eyes were different now—gentle almost, sad almost, as though he were sorry to say the things he had.“You are steel already.I have no doubt that you are what we need.”

Solona was nothing but doubt.She turned to leave. 

“We leave for Ostagar tomorrow,” he called.“Collect your things—not many, mind you—and say your goodbyes.”

Goodbyes.Had she been tasked with saying goodbyes a month ago, things would be different.She had never been blessed with a multitude of friends, but there were some, then—good ones, loving ones, she had thought.Jowan had been among them.

“I have no goodbyes to say,” she muttered. 

“Would you like to leave right away, then?” 

The ceiling seemed so short suddenly, the air so thick and hot, hard to breathe.She shook her head.There was no reason to stay, but… this was her _home_.

“Find me when you are ready.”He was still gentle, nearing pity.She would not be pitied any longer.She pulled up her skirts and rushed back into the atrium. 

Solona stood beneath the rotunda, surrounded by skylights, gazing up into the arches and columns that rose, ever smaller, to the top of the Tower.The air was colder here, and the cloudy grey of the skylight seemed to cool her skin, her head.She breathed in fitful gasps. 

The tower was the only home she had known for almost twenty years.But now… it would not be.

Staying here was poisonous, even if it were welcoming, even if she were forgiven.She would _not_ be, she knew.No matter how long she might have stayed here, there was no going back to what she had been before her Harrowing, before Jowan.

Some might say they would forgive, but they would not forget.

This was not truly a home.Perhaps it never had been. 


	3. Chapter 3

In weather like this, Lake Calenhad churned and thrashed against the shores of the island.At a few windowed alcoves in the Hold, Cullen could just hear the waves and wind outside.Most rooms, though, the walls were thick, the windows bricked over, protected from the world. 

This hall was like that, quiet and bright with candlelight, ignorant of the weather.But in the chapel this morning, he had seen the rain against the stained glass, and in the atrium the wet fog passed overhead.

It was easy to imagine, even here, he could feel the lake swell and surge, as it had when he arrived here, tossing their skiff, and his insides. 

He shuffled his feet and shook his hands, sore in their heavy gauntlets.Another Templar stood at guard with him, some yards away, still as death, looking straight ahead.

Cullen could never manage it, that dead-eyed stare at nothing.He imagined, or hoped, it would come with time.

After only eight months in the Hold, everything was still new to him.He was half-fascinated, half-afraid, his eyes on everything and everyone. 

Mages filed through the hall, apprentices delivering scrolls on errands, enchanters carrying armfuls of vials to laboratories.He could not help but look at them going about their business.He had not yet grown weary of watching what they did—intently, with purpose and interest.

It was his duty to watch them, but most Templars, he observed, did not look closely.They were silent and jaded.  All they watched for was a wrong move, something out of place.

They did not see the small triumphs and tragedies among the mages, friendships and enmities, that were not so well-hidden from view. 

Perhaps it was for the best, to be so distant.Templars who grew too close to mages were not without bias.They were unreliable.

Cullen, for all his interest, would not become unreliable, he promised himself.He served the Chantry and the Maker, and would do His bidding, no matter what.

A crowd of senior mages walked past, and loud laughter broke out at one’s whispered joke, Cullen presumed.The other Templar at guard broke his stillness.He stamped his armored boot.

“Stop laughing,” he barked, his voice hoarse with disuse. The mages quieted and walked on.

There was no rule against laughing Cullen had ever heard.But Kinloch, it was said, was stricter than most Circles.It was not a rule, no, but the Templars wanted the mages kept in line, in order.They wanted them under control.

That was the way things were. 

Behind the laughing mages, Solona appeared, following their path at a distance.

She was… interesting to him.

After seeing her in the chapel so many times for morning prayers, he hoped they had struck up a kind of friendship.It was not what he was supposed to do.

He _knew_ that.

But she intrigued him.Kind and intelligent—and yes, she was beautiful.Even counting the thick curls that fanned up and around her head, she barely reached his shoulder.

Yet she seemed strong to him.There was something in her bearing that was forceful, something in her deep brown eyes that was confident.Her faith seemed unshakeable, even after her Harrowing. 

He was assigned to her Harrowing.Though it was brief, he had trembled the entire time.He had known she would prevail, knew that she was strong and capable in the Maker’s eyes, as well as his own.

Still he shook, and his sword had grown heavier by the minute.When it was over, she stood blinking a few moments, then immediately knelt at the altar in that room, and prayed.After, she thanked the Templars for their service and left, shoulders back and head high. 

Since that day, Cullen thought her ever more impressive.And to see her in the early morning candlelight of the chapel, her glowing skin and small smile and her shy “good mornings”… 

He thought about the line between his duty, and his heart.He had been taught there was no line at all.

Sometimes, though, he felt there was some distance between what he was supposed to do, and what he wanted to do.He prayed, and asked for guidance, forgiveness. 

Solona paused in front of him.Her face was tight, her dark eyes troubled.“Hello, Cullen.”She nodded toward him, her brow knit with worry.“Could you walk with me?”

It was something he did near daily, take a few short steps out of the chapel with her in the dark dawn. But now, he swore he could see the eyes of the other Templar at guard cut toward him, could _feel_ him listening.

“I cannot leave my duties,” he said, too loud for conversation, so the other guard might hear.

He wanted to walk with her, to find out what was troubling her.To be a friend to her.But it was not allowed.

He was already under watch—some other Templars had noticed him speaking with her.It was lucky none of them went to chapel early.They would think him infatuated with her.A few already did.

In the dormitory, the rooms crowded with small, creaky iron bedsteads by the dozen, he had been warned. 

One of the older Templars, stout and churlish, had called for his attention.   There were jokes in the barracks that Cullen had said her name in his sleep.

“Boy,” the man spat, “it won’t do to make nice with mages, however pretty they may be.”His laugh was sour.There was no humor in it.

“Templars watch mages.We don’t make friends,” he said, loud enough so everyone in the room could hear.And they did.“Mages aren’t like you and me.You can’t treat them like people,” he snarled. 

Cullen sat upon his thin mattress and stared at the floor.He said nothing, his throat felt shut, and his face flushed red. 

The Templar laughed again, thick and mean.“Maker’s _sake_ , boy,” he said, “if you want to fuck it, take it into a storage room and be done with it.”He picked up his helmet and looked at Cullen with a weary pity.“That’ll get it out of your head,” he muttered.

The words were burned into Cullen’s memory. 

That was why they had assigned him to her Harrowing.They hoped he would have to kill her.That it would teach him a lesson.He was not stupid.

Compassion was not stupidity, though some thought otherwise. 

Solona sighed, and brought him out of his bitter thoughts.“Then I only want to shake your hand,” she said, forcing a smile, “to thank you for always being kind.”She looked at him expectantly, but he only stared back at her, puzzled.

“I am leaving in the morning,” she explained.“This is a goodbye.”

His heart sank.“You’re transferring to another Circle?” he asked, and hoped his voice did not sound as pathetic as he felt. 

She shook her head.“I am going to war,” she said.

It was almost a question, as though she herself did not believe it.

“To join the King’s army.And the Grey Wardens,” she said, and her voice faltered.Her eyes darted all around, her lips drawn tight. 

Cullen could not react.Mages joining the conflict were experienced enchanters.He pushed away the thought that this was a death sentence.

His eyes found her hands.The long sleeves of her robes were rolled up at her wrists, and she wrung her hands, twisting and gripping.Her fingernails were chewed and raw.

He whispered, “Will you be all right?”

Her eyes quickly pooled with tears.For all she had endured, that he knew of, he had not seen her like this, so weakened by worry.

“I don’t know,” she said.“But I’ll probably never come back here.”

The pain in her voice made him ache.He could not comfort her, or help her.There was nothing he could do but harden himself against his fears for her, trust in the Maker’s plan for His Faithful, and honor her request.

What harm was there in a Templar shaking hands with a mage?

He took off his gauntlet, and his leather glove, and held them under his arm.He held out his hand to her. 

She let out a deep sigh, and took his hand in both of hers.When her fingers gently grazed his wrist, he shivered. 

Solona let go of his hand and looked deep into his eyes.“Goodbye, Cullen.” 

He watched her walk away, his naked hand still outstretched, when he felt something in his palm.It was a small, tightly folded piece of parchment. 

He quickly shoved on his glove and gauntlet, and left the parchment in his hand.

A few steps’ jog to the other Templar in the hall, and he said, “Uh, going to the privy, so, uh, watch there for me?”The Templar grunted.

Cullen ran through the hallway.It was the opposite way she had gone, but he did not care just then if anyone thought he was chasing Solona.In a way, he was.

Water dripped and echoed in the dank, dark privy.It was blessedly empty.The dim lanterns in greasy glass lit the room with a greenish glow.

He ducked into a corner, took off his gauntlet, and retrieved the parchment from inside his sweaty glove, unfolding it with haste. 

_Meet me in the library after the second bell for dinner hour.If I don’t see you, know that I won’t forget you._

Cullen’s heart hammered.He looked around the empty room, listened for coming footsteps.There were none.

He opened a lantern, and set the parchment aflame.The note fell to the floor.He let it burn there, then stamped the ashes, until it was nothing more than dust. 


	4. Chapter 4

The bell clanged into the empty passage, tinny and hollow.

It was a formality.  No one missed dinner.

The mages, the Tranquils, and all the Templars but the guards at the gates were eating in the hall.  Though the fare was modest at the best of times, meals were a reprieve.  The Templars were occupied, and the rest of the mages, as well—distracted from politics and petty squabbles.

To always eat alone, though… to pass so many crowded tables in search of an empty corner… Solona would not miss that hall.

The bell rang a second time.  She walked into the silent library.

The heavy bundle on her shoulder knocked against her back.  She crept into a dark corner, and waited.  Candles dotted the room with soft, golden light.  Towering bookshelves lined the walls, the ladders leaned against them spindly and worn.  In the light of day, Solona would crane her neck to peer the books so far out of reach, at the very top.  At night, the highest shelves faded into darkness.

So many books there had never been time to read.  Now there never would be.

Soft footsteps shuffled through the arched doorway.  From the shadows, against the stone wall, she watched him enter.  Cullen walked into a halo of dim candlelight, and looked around the room.  He was looking for her, she realized.  He wore no armor or Templar sashes, only a simple brown tunic and pants, and a worried look.

His worry matched her own.  She saw in his face all her doubts reflected.

She could end this before it began.  She could hide here in the shadows, and never step out.  She could wait for him to grow impatient at her absence, and walk back to his barracks.  Then she could sit through the night, alone, in dark silence.

It would be wiser, she thought, to forsake this foolish notion.

But it was the silent, lonely night ahead that drove her to seek him out.

There was no one else.  Irving was no longer someone she wanted to be near.  This Duncan was a stranger to her.  And if any of the others wanted reconcile, to apologize, they did not make it obvious.  None of them knew she was leaving, and it was not news she would offer of her own accord.

She would not parade her misfortune and fear before them, even to prove their hypocrisy.  What would it satisfy?  She would not be pitied, no matter the circumstance.

Cullen, though, was not one of them.  That he stood here in the library, searching the darkness, was proof of that.  If he pitied her, he had never shown it.  Whether his interest in her was improper... that was not a question she could answer with objectivity.

In the face of what lay ahead, her own interest did not amount to much.  It was loose pile of fleeting feelings: relief at someone who still acknowledged her with a smile; an unsettled anticipation each morning in the chapel; her heart's soft thump when his flushed face turned to her.

Cullen looked around the quiet library, uncertain, but eager.  She could feel it.

Her skin prickled with a cool sweat.  What, precisely, was he eager for?  What had she been thinking, bringing him here?

For all his kind _good mornings_ and visits to the chapel, he was a Templar.  They held power, and they used it.  They were—  It was difficult even to think it.  They... took liberties.  Whatever their sacred role in the Chantry, some were happy to shed its bindings as soon as they could manage it.

She closed her eyes against the soft lights, and his face.  If she were going to her death, and nothing here made sense anymore... there could be this.  One night of friendship, without the Tower's rules which made that impossible.

And if her offer of friendship had not been clear—should it come to that, she would use magic, and not hesitate.  She was no longer a Templar's charge.  And she had nothing left to lose.

It was something she would have to get used to—destroying men with her magic.  It was, in essence, what she had been asked to do.

Cullen folded his arms, head bent.  Even in the dim light of the empty library, she could see his face had fallen.

No, there was no point in hiding, no matter the danger.  She had begun this and would see it through.

She stepped forward into the candlelight.

He spun toward her, his body tense and ready to react.  When he saw it was her, his shoulders fell, and he sighed.  He hurried to her quietly. 

"Why here?" he whispered.

She shook her head in lieu of an answer.   _Not here._  

She moved toward a recessed passageway and beckoned him to follow.  There was a battered wooden door at the end of the short, dark passage, held fast by a rusted iron lock.  With a slight wave of her hand, the heavy lock unlatched and the door creaked open.

"There," she whispered, gesturing to the dusty passageway inside.  From around a corner, light seeped into the passage and dimly lit the way.

He looked at her, questioning and concerned, and glanced at the empty library behind them.  Then he squared his shoulders, and moved forward.  She closed the door and waved her hand again.  The latch clasping shut around the lock sounded from the other side.

The storage room was well-lit, warm and dry.  There were magicked candelabras that burned without flame set among the low, rough shelves.  Here, there were even older volumes and scrolls than in the main library.  The ones of value were housed in glass cases in the library, or in Irving's office.  These were duplicates and discards, the stock that was not worth storing properly, but still too valuable to simply thrown out.  It had its place, out of the way of everything else.

Perhaps it was ridiculous self-pity to admit she felt at home here—but all the same, she did.

She found Cullen looking around the room, his nose wrinkled.  There was a fine sheen of dust on everything here.  In all her hours spent alone here, she tried not to touch anything, not to leave a trace of her visits.  But simply entering seemed to envelop her in it.  She set down her bulky pack with a thud to clap the dust from her hands.

He bent toward a low shelf to examine its contents.   "What is this place?"

"Just library storage."

He hummed in response, pushing aside a pile of loose scrolls atop a large, leather volume. Dust plumed up around him, and he sneezed into his sleeve.  "I've never seen this part of the Tower before," he said, coughing.

"Oh?" She picked up the pack again and dragged it toward a row of shelves overflowing with tattered scrolls.  "I come here a lot.  Just to be my myself."

"Is... is that allowed?" he asked.  
  
She did not bother to answer.  It no longer mattered.  
  
"Here we are," she said, pulling the pack around a broken chest, toward the corner where she usually hid herself.  He followed her there.

Her corner was cozy and dark.  There was a rug, a few flat pillows, some candles and candlesticks, some parchment and ink.  Squatting, she opened her pack and began sorting through everything she brought.

"Um, do you—"  She heard Cullen sigh, and looked up to find him staring down at his feet, his brow tight.  He looked as though he wanted to say something, but wouldn't.

She could explain herself, explain the desperation and loneliness that gripped her now.  Explain that, in her mind, this was a last rite before an almost certain march toward death.  That he was the last possible person in Thedas who might spend time with her willingly, but still she felt it necessary to lure him here with a cryptic message.

She could explain all that, even if it made her sound—and feel—pathetic.

Or she could pretend she was another kind of person, if just for one evening.  The kind of mage who would happily sneak away with a willing young Templar.  Someone who could steal her own moments of happiness.  Someone who found the rules they lived under less an iron fist and more a mild annoyance—like a stray hair, easily brushed aside.

Given the choice, pretending was less painful.

"I am sorry I rushed you in here," she said.  "I thought perhaps we could... talk."  She unwrapped a half-round of bread from the pack, and a bunch of red grapes.  "We've never truly had the chance before. And we won't," she said, "after tonight."  She smiled sadly, and sat down at one end of the rug, nestled against a large pillow.  She pulled out a wedge of cheese, a dark bottle of wine and two cups.

"I brought some food, as well, so you don't have to miss dinner," she said, gesturing to the pile on the rug. 

She had thought of everything.  Everything except what to do if he did not want to join her after all.  The discomfort in his every move made Solona think he might run at any moment.

But he did not.  He seemed to have no clue what was expected of him, and she herself did not know quite what she wanted him to do.  So he mimicked her steps.  He sat across from her, upon one of the flat pillows, and folded his legs in.  Then he waited quietly, with no more direction from her to follow.

She gestured to the array of candlesticks, and the flames softly grew.  She twisted out the bottle's cork, poured the wine, and handed him a cup.

He took it, limply, and stared down into it as he spoke, flat and quiet.

"Do you have any idea what will happen if we're caught here?"

She drank from her own cup, and looked at the rug between them, hoping the nervous shifting in her eyes was something only she knew was there.  The person she was pretending to be would not be nervous.  She would be defiant.

"If you're too afraid," she asked, "why did you come?"

 


	5. Chapter 5

The cup of wine was heavy in Cullen's hands.  His fingers felt weak and useless.

He stared at Solona.  Dark, coiled curls fanned out around her head, and in the soft light of candles between them her skin, a rich russet brown, was luminous.  He had never been this close to her.

And this close, he could see her eyes were troubled.  That her fingers shook as his did.

He had seen that look in her eyes before her Harrowing, as she walked toward the glowing font of lyrium and began the ritual.  Solona had been ready, even if she had not known what was to come.  He could feel it emanating from—her strength, her will.  But in her eyes there had been fear and doubt.  Fear she tried to swallow and hide, doubt whose whispers she tried to ignore.

Or perhaps he had only seen what he wanted to see.  What he himself felt.  Perhaps that crass Templar had been right about that, at least—that this infatuation of his was more than could be tolerated.

Look where it had led him, after all.

"Your note," he said. "I had to know."

She nodded, and said nothing.  But her eyes softened a little, and the grip around her cup loosened.

Cullen drank from his own cup.  He had never had wine before in his life. In half-hearted imaginings, he thought a dark red wine like this might be sweet.  In truth, it was bitter, and sour.  It bit at his tongue, and ached in his jaw.

But his mouth was dry, so he drank more.  It seemed to loosen his tongue.

"I have never lied, or forsaken my duty, in this way," he said.  He needed her to hear that.  Or perhaps he needed to say it aloud, to make it true.

There were actions he had taken during his training which he regretted.  Times he had overstepped some boundary, or embarrassed himself, or another recruit.  There were worse things he did not care to remember.  They were rare, but the memories stung.

He was already certain this evening would fall among those regrets.  He had to be careful.

Solona pulled her legs in closer.  "I've put a muffling on the door.  I've also put one in here.  Even if someone walks in, which they won't, they can't hear us.  I've done it many times."

So she had planned this?  Or she had become so adept at evading the rules and eluding the Templars' notice that even he had not seen?

"Do you hide here often?" he asked.

She ran a finger around the edge of her cup.  "Almost every day, lately."

Every day.  Alone.  He had seen how isolated she was, how people shunned her.  There was not much he could do—having a templar defend her would do nothing but damage, he knew.

Yet, in a strange way... he envied her solitude.  In the Tower, there was always someone near.  A brother at watch, a commander at inspection, a silent Tranquil whose soft presence was nonetheless unnerving.  Sleep was the only escape, if one could ignore the dozens of snoring, farting bodies that filled the dormitory.

Cullen longed to be at the Chantry again.  It was more quiet than home had been, and—unlike home—he had never wanted for anything.  When he was not training or studying, he liked to be alone, seated in some dark corner with a book, or his thoughts.

Much like Solona did now.  He must, he thought then, have felt some kinship with her, even before she... fell from favor.

He realized she was staring at him.

"I meant what I said, in the hall."  Her eyes showed the same worried insistence he had felt.  She wanted him to know this.  "You've been kind to me," she said with a weak smile.

How sad, he thought, that giving her the smallest of kindnesses was enough to set him apart.

"Well."  He swallowed the word.  Cullen did not want to linger upon how he felt about her, if he could even speak it aloud.  And, for all his observations, it was difficult for him to make any kind of statement on how she was treated, or how agitated some of their charges had become since the blood mage was taken.

No one had ever asked for his opinion.  Tellingly, neither had she. 

Yet he felt compelled to give it.  To at least soften some of the things he had heard from his Templar brothers.  Their thoughts ranged from total indifference toward the fate of any one mage, to claiming—loud enough for any nearby to hear—that they all be disposed of, and to let the Maker sort amongst their souls.

"I don't know what the other mages are about lately," he said.  He tried to sound noncommittal.  "They seem to have forgot what the Chantry teaches."

She looked at him, her brow wrinkled, studying him.  "They want freedom.  What living creature does not?  I understand it."

"You do?" he asked.  He put down his cup.  "They want to break the Circle's organization.  They want outright rebellion."  He suddenly worried that there were some gaps too far to bridge between them.  That he shouldn't be befriending mages.  That he shouldn't be here at all.

Solona sighed, her jaw set tight.  "It seems they do.  But the Circle..."  She stared down into her wine and pursed her lips.  She seemed to be considering her words carefully.  "There's a mage who's escaped seven times now.  He will not be dissuaded from it.  Don't you think he has a reason?"

"Yes," he replied.  "He's mad."

"What if he isn't?"

"The last time he was captured," he said, "he spent every day in his cell talking to a cat."

She narrowed her eyes.  "I like to talk to cats," she said defensively.

"This one apparently talked back."  He tried to be patient with her, but honestly, there was no other reason for it.  That mage was mad, and the others, the seditious ones, would just as soon beg he be made Tranquil if it benefitted them in some way.  They were not charitable, as a group.  Solona knew that first-hand.

Though that was not a statement he would make aloud.

She took a long drink from her cup, looking past him at some dusty collection of books.  He wondered if it was not only his own patience wearing thin now.

"Do not misunderstand me," she said.  "I believe in the Circle.  But you must have some idea of how... _trapped_ one might feel."  She tilted her head, her eyes softening.  "Surely _you_ must have some empathy."

Empathy was a rare commodity among Templars.  It was actively discouraged in training, subdued and weeded out.  Mages must be dealt with firmly, to ensure they know it is Templars who keep order.  This is what he was taught.  They were like horses, or mabari.  They needed training.

But some people like to kick dogs, and whip horses.  One did not have to be a Templar to become someone like that.

There were reasons, too, why Templars might feel trapped.  Reasons that were not discussed by the Sisters, that were only mentioned in whisper and rumor.  The duties of a Templar were difficult.  They wore upon one's body and soul.  If most Templars did not live to see old age, and if their minds did not seem to last as long as their bodies... it was to be expected.  They gave everything they were to this service.  It was all Cullen ever wanted.

A life given to the Chantry, to serve her people and protect those in need... that was reward enough.

"Perhaps you are not aware," he said slowly, "that we are bound to our service.  Completely."  He was careful with his words.  "It is a bond that lasts for life."  
  
"But you have a choice."  Solona pulled up the loose sleeves of her robe, but they fell down again in an instant.

Cullen thought of all the children at the Chantry school who were there because there was nowhere else for them: the orphans and unacknowledged bastards; the third or fourth sons of noble families; young, rejected Chantry sisters.  They did not appreciate the sacred role they played, or the chance they were given.  Even the ones who were more like him, poor and desperate, were not eager to be Templars.  If the choice were given, most would never have joined the Order.  And that was a pity.

"Some of us do not," he said.

She looked so apologetic, he must have seemed offended.  "I never thought about what Templars go through."  
  
"It is no matter," he said.  "Templars do not think of mages in that way, either."

And that, too, was a pity.  She looked into his eyes, and he did not look away.  He wondered if they had ever truly looked at each other this way, without hastily demurring or turning their eyes down, until yesterday, when she had given him this strange invitation.

Was it possible, he thought, to forget what they were for a few hours?  To simply be, to attempt to talk as any two people might?

He was unsure.  It would be difficult to forget anyone was a mage.   _A mage is fire made flesh and a demon asleep._   Even in his short time as a Templar, he had seen enough to make him believe that.

But they were also people, regardless of what an ass who passed for a Templar had to say.  The frightened, earnest young woman who sat across from him, drinking stolen wine, was simply that.  A young woman, with an uncertain future.

He feared for her.

"Do you know anything about the Grey Wardens?" he asked.  "Or what you might..."

She shook her head, her troubled eyes cast down.  "No. It is not a life I ever—"  Then she sighed, and looked at him, across the blanket and the wine and food.

"I suppose this means that, technically," she said, "I am no longer your charge."

There was truth to that, he thought blankly.  It was not the whole truth.  As long as he was a Templar and she a mage, he had a duty.  But while he sat here with her, to talk, as she had asked—he might try not to let it cloud his mind.

And if he could manage it, that _would_ change things.

He reached for the bread and tore a crust from the loaf.  Solona offered him the cheese.

They ate in nervous silence.


End file.
